


everyone's scared of going nowhere

by hooksandheroics



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: After break up, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 18:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17370998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir are broken up.





	everyone's scared of going nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfriday/gifts).



> heya!
> 
> have some fix-it.
> 
> (special shoutout to tara because she's always supportive and she makes me a better writer. and to all my gals out there in the crackship working group, yall are such troopers.)
> 
> title from Nobody Love by Tori Kelly
> 
> disclaimer: this is unedited and unbeta-ed, please forgive my mistakes. enjoy!

Contrary to popular belief (among family and friends, and the internet), Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir are broken up.

Tessa Virtue, in her heart and soul and mind, knows this. There is a reason her keychain is heavier than before, a reason the bathroom doesn’t smell like some expensive men’s cologne anymore, and a reason that his name in her contacts list has reverted to “Scott Moir”.

And while the break up was… amiable, the backlash it received from their family and close friends was wild to the point where she and her _good friend_ Scott had to issue a memo to the people involved through e-mail to ask them to _never_ mention their break up at any family gathering, joint or otherwise, ever.

(They had to issue another memo about _implications_ after the first family gathering post break-up. Specifically sent to their mothers, Danny, and Jordan. And then to Cara, just to be sure. Scott had given her a look as she hovered over his cousin’s name in her contacts, choosing to commandeer the trackpad and include Cara into the long list of recipients.)

It seemed to have worked.

Uncle Paul’s birthday has always been quiet (or as quiet as Moir family gatherings can be) and he has always been a big fan of Tessa and Scott’s right to their private lives. It had felt safe, approaching that weekend. Uncle Paul would never use his peas to spell out ‘ _scossa_ ’, unlike his (adult, fully grown, tall) nephews.

Tessa is invited, as per usual.

And they carpool to Ilderton, as per usual. What’s the point of taking two separate cars if they plan on arriving at the same time, right? What’s the point of changing things that have always worked, right?

Right, Tessa thinks as she battles Scott over the aux cord, which ultimately ends up with her anyway because she _knows_ in her heart that he secretly likes her playlists. (She generously sprinkles some country in her mixes especially if it’s one they use in long car rides together. She’s not a _monster_.)

The best thing about breaking up with Scott is the fact that when they got back to Montreal, it was basically the same. They might live in separate condos in the same building, but his toothbrush (the only one he has) is in her bathroom and his products have invaded her vanity. He has multiple t-shirts _under_ her bed, in her closet, and draped over furniture. That fact in particular has sparked a lot of their arguments and – that’s the best thing. If the worst of their “fights” were about his t-shirts hanging out on her couch, just waiting to become rags, then it’s a smooth-sailing friendship.

Despite the tiny little microscopic, ignorable fact that he always goes and tidies his mess and gives her a puppy dog pout afterwards to make sure that she’s not _that_ mad, that she _used_ to kiss off his face that she couldn’t anymore because – well, they’re broken up now and. They both have to respect that, even if he probably knew the effect his face has on her.

(He’s a bastard and he knows it. Probably.)

Right now, they’re arguing in her car about the merits of real Christmas trees versus just reusing plastic Christmas trees because he’s been in this environmental-conscious phase ever since watching a nature documentary about forest fires and poor baby eagles. For the record, she stands by his opinions, but what good is it if she doesn’t see him riled up with passion.

By the time they arrive at the Moirs, she is exhausted, and Scott is hungry. He holds her hand all through walking along the slightly icy pathway towards the front porch, tugging slightly because he is eager for those homemade mashed potatoes, he drops it the moment the door opens to hug his mom tightly. Alma Moir looks over her son’s shoulder and reaches out an arm, inviting Tessa into the embrace.

“It’s so good to see you two,” Alma sighs, releasing them both with a wistful smile.

Scott ducks his head and smiles fondly. “You saw us two weeks ago, mom.”

His mother pinches his arm and he flinches playfully. “It’s not a crime to miss my youngest son _and_ my favorite child.”

He blinks. “That’s…not both me?”

Tessa laughs, feeling the exhaustion wash away at Alma inviting them inside for some cake before dinner, winking at her specifically. “Chocolate,” she whispers with a sly smile before disappearing into the kitchen, but not before Scott scoffing at the both of them.

“I was told by my momma that having dessert before dinner is a big _no-no_.” He tugs at one of Tessa’s braids with a small grin. “Guess all my childhood was built on lies.”

Tessa takes a spot on the couch next to a freshly woken Quinn, greeting her with a small smile and plopping the girl’s legs on her thighs. She remembers when she could still lift baby Quinn up in the air, and now she’s on her way to being a lady, with her tiny tiara sitting askew on her messy hair. She’s clutching her blanket close to her chest as she lets uncle Scott settle her head down on his lap.

She stares up at adoringly at her uncle Scott who tweaks her nose and says, “Why couldn’t you have napped this frequently when you were little?”

Quinn sticks her tongue out. “You needed someone to keep you busy,” she replies. “Auntie Tess needs a break from you.”

Scott shoots Tessa a look, affronted. “The mouth on this child!”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she protests, and the little girl giggles.

“You can’t tell me none of this is your fault,” Scott says. “She gets this from you.”

“Excuse me, you’re the direct bloodline –”

Quinn giggles louder from her position on Scott’s lap and says, “Now kiss!”

And just like that, the two adults go silent.

Quinn doesn’t know, or must have forgotten, or she just… doesn’t care. When clearly, Tessa and Scott do. Not that they kiss in front of Scott’s tiny niece, or anyone for that matter, whenever they engage in playful argument. Quinn is at that age where she sees the concept of romance in everything – last week, she saw it in a couple of rocks in her school’s playground. And Uncle Scott and Auntie Tessa have always been really good at making people think they’re in love.

They were, for a short while.

Now, they’re not.

And it’s awkward to explain to a child how two people just _break up_.

So Scott just says, “Now, Q…”

And Quinn predictably says, “But you used to do it!” she sits up and fixes her uncle with a curious look. “Remember last Christmas?”

 _Under the mistletoe_ , Tessa’s brain readily supplies. They were broken up then, freshly so, and the news still hadn’t been made public to the family so Scott had pulled her in with an almost apologetic smile, had tilted his head and murmured, “just one?” under his breath before planting a lingering kiss on her lips.

The whole living room had erupted in whistles and cheers and – Tessa had already forgotten what they were doing under the mistletoe _together_ , she thought they were better than getting caught standing in the doorway where they _both_ know there was going to be a sprig just waiting for its next victims – but when she pulled away, he looked as dazed as she felt and maybe it wasn’t that bad at all.

They had missed it, is all.

She missed being kissed. And as far as she knew back then, he still had no girlfriend after the last one. Maybe he missed it, too.

She still doesn’t know, she never asked.

They went back home to Montreal after that Christmas with no mention of the kiss. Just a peaceful car ride and a little bit of that small dazed smile before they took on the 401.

“Dear God,” says Charlie from the kitchen. “Are you terrorizing them again? I swear, you’re not my kid.”

Quinn rolls her eyes at her dad and stomps into the kitchen, maybe to give him hell for disowning her for the nth time, effectively leaving Tessa and Scott alone with residual lingering heaviness from almost trying to explain to a kid why they just couldn’t kiss anymore.

All of a sudden, the couch has a gap in between them so loaded with something unexplained that it would feel unnatural to let it fester, and yet awkward to close.

“I’m going to get cake,” Scott announces.

And then it’s just Tessa on the couch, but at least the gap doesn’t exist anymore.

*

The truth to the matter is this: one cannot fault Tessa Virtue for having the desire to kiss her partner of 22 years, even after breaking up. For as long as she can remember, the urge has been there, from the moment she knew what a kiss meant to the moment she found out what a kiss felt.

When they were kids and the prospect of a relationship was holding hands and not meeting eyes, and then when they were a little bit older where the idea of boys and girls together was appalling. A little more time after that, finding a girl or a boy to be hormonal with became a priority.

To look back and see these frames of her life and pick out the parts where Scott played a role – it doesn’t surprise her that there’s absolutely nowhere in there that he hasn’t touched.

Her mother warned her about this when she was eight, and then again when she was twenty. _You’re gonna want to know more about Scott Moir, my dear. A lot more. And he’s going to break your heart in many ways. And you’re going to break his._

The way she said it, like there was an inevitability to it, scared the hell out of Tessa at age eight and twenty.

At age twenty-four, she thought she was fearless, and in some way, she was. The silver medal – she jumped to ‘what now’ right after, right on the flight home. What now that they were defeated? What now that she had to go home and tell people that they were proud of the outcome no matter the ranking?

She thought she had answers. In some way, she had.

Tell people some version of the truth, a version that she and Scott partially believed. Tell their families the whole truth, make them understand what they went through. Tell Scott the deeper truth, tell him what she really thought.

And then the lies.

Tell Scott she wanted some space. Tell him maybe it’s time.

She didn’t think he would agree – and she didn’t think she was thinking that until he said ‘okay’ in his small voice, and for a long while, that was it.

Okay, we’re done.

Okay, we’re going our separate ways. But not really.

But Sochi was a lifetime ago. Tessa had come to realize that lying to herself is counterproductive and will result to a two-year break and a messy Scotland trip.

So why is she here in the Moir kitchen at 11pm putting away containers of leftovers while Scott is washing the dishes, lying to herself about not wanting him in any way, shape, or form?

He’s here with his ugly Christmas sweater because one of the littler nephews spilled juice on his nice shirt and she shouldn’t find it endearing, but he’s glancing at her every now and then to check if the lasagna leftovers are still intact because he knows she’s a sucker for Alma’s recipe, and she’s just trying to mask her giddy giggle.

And by god, it could be the wine, but he looks really good.

“You look like you’re ready to pass out,” he notes, wiping his hands on the dish towel on his shoulder. “Do you wanna go up?”

And he’s _really_ close, Tessa realizes rather belatedly. The kitchen is spacious, she thinks. It doesn’t lack space, she thinks. But this is how he gets when he’s trying to gauge her sleepiness or her tiredness, and frankly, when he looks at her under his lashes, he looks like a puppy. And he places his hands on her hips to steady her, his warmth soaking into her personal space, the faint scent of his cologne making her head whirl – and she’s not to be held accountable for what she says next.

“No.”

“No?” he tilts his head, confused. “As in, you don’t wanna go up yet, or you’re not tired yet?”

 _No,_ she thinks as she places a sure hand on his shoulder and runs her fingers along the soft fabric of his sweater. _You’re not allowed to leave._

“Tess?”

His voice sounds rougher, breathier, and when she looks back into his eyes, they seem darker. With his lips parted like that, she might think he wants this, too. And that’s a dangerous thought. That’s _not_ respecting their break up.

“I’m going,” she breathes. “Up. I’m going up.”

Scott clears his throat and shakes his head, blinks a couple times, before giving her a shaky smile. “Yeah, uh. I’m good here.”

She nods and tries to get out of his embrace, but his arms snake around her waist not even a half second after, and holds her there, and there’s no more space between their bodies, just the breath from their exhales and a word.

“Wait,” he says.

“What?”

“I’ll walk you to your room.”

 _That’s not necessary_ , she wants to say. _I can walk. I’m an Olympic gold medallist._

But all she does is nod.

*

There’s a metaphor to all of this.

The stairs represent her taking the high ground and not holding Scott Moir’s hand.

The door represents her opening a new path to a life of never thinking about Scott Moir and uncontrollable desire.

The dimness of the room represents the blindness with which she’s choosing to jump, moving forward into this new path of life.

The feeling of Scott’s lips on hers and his hands in her hair and his teeth lightly catching on her bottom lip as he moves to close the door behind him and pin her to it is a metaphor to: _she’s fucked_.

His leg parts hers as his tongue skims her lips, asking for entry, and presses against her so suddenly that she gasps into his mouth, surprised. When he pulls away in alarm, his eyes are huge and guilty, hands halting at her hips. She feels him tremble against her skin, or maybe it’s her.

“Are you… do you wanna talk?”

Ultimately, this is what pushes her the other way.

Her head spins a little with the intensity of the kiss, and with his hands still touching her bare skin – it’s like twenty years of touching hadn’t done its job desensitizing her from his touch.

It’s like years of falling in and out of each other’s bed hadn’t, also.

She’s here feeling like she’s burning through her skin just because even though he’s shaking, he’s steadily holding her up, looking at her with something akin to worry and regret that he’s hurt her.

Her mother was right, she wants to know more about Scott Moir, and they’d broken each other’s hearts a ton of times before. But she still wants to know more about him.

“Hey,” he whispers. The room looks better in the moonlight and with nothing to hear but their heavy breathing and the insects chirping outside. He brings his fingertips to her face, tracing down her cheek, eyes following his own movements. “Tell me.”

“You,” she tells him, grinding her hips against his, hearing his muffled groan. “Are such a liar.”

“Tess, _please_ ,” he begs when she doesn’t stop. She feels him hard in his jeans, sees his eyes go hazy, feels his forehead touch hers. His breath comes out in puffs against her lips, and she smiles. He is such a liar.

“You said we were through.”

She isn’t sure he heard her until he uses just enough force to pin her hips down and stop her movements. He looks back up at her, nose flaring with effort, and probably annoyance because despite the headiness and the wrongness, she feels giddy with elation that she can still make him feel like this. And her face must show it.

Scott brings his lips to her ear, biting her earlobe and dragging his teeth, making her shiver violently against him and he huffs a laugh. “I guess we’re both liars.”

She pinches his side and he giggles into her hair, light and lovely. “We’re going to talk – after,” she says, breathless as he starts kissing down her neck.

“After,” he mumbles into her collarbone.

Tessa pushes against him until his legs hit the bed at the center of the room. The quiet ruffle of sheets invade her senses as he sits, and with him looking up at her like he’s seeing something he’s been wanting for a long time stand just out of reach makes her think this is more than just sex.

She runs her fingers through his hair and his eyes close, a quiet moan escaping his parted lips.

She kisses him again deeply this time, sitting on his lap, as close as she can get.

He’s hot to the touch, messy and pliant in her hands, and if she could bottle the sounds that’s coming out of him right now, she would. She had not forgotten this – him. And the way that she loves him. She hadn’t.

It’s hard to forget when his eyes ask her for a kiss and a touch in that way only he could, and when she asks for them back, he gives it to her. And maybe even more.

Sometimes, when in bed, she can imagine giving him a part of her soul. In her darkest moments, she imagines giving him the whole of it. And sometimes, in the light of day, she imagines him doing the same for her.

He fists her sweater in his hand, the other sliding down her ass to press her into him. “Can I take this off?” he whispers hoarsely, running his lips down her neck. She pulls away from him and takes care of it herself. She knows he’s going to ask about her pants so she unbuttons those too, standing briefly to tug them down her hips to crumple onto the ground.

When she sits back down on his lap, he has this dumbstruck expression on his face that she can’t help but kiss him again. He deepens the kiss, hands finding more exposed skin waiting for his touch.

“Your turn,” she murmurs against his lips, hands already tugging at the ugly Christmas sweater. He raises his arms up and she pulls it off him, laughing a little at the state of his hair once he is out of it.

He shakes his head, grinning, making it even messier, rocking them both on the edge of the bed. She almost loses her balance if not for the arm he has around her waist, keeping her close. When her senses get flooded with hushed laughter, she realizes that this is it.

She is ruined for other people.

He lays his forehead to her chest, clutching her just like that. It’s quiet save for their breathing and she feels the words bubble up her throat. And then:

“I wanna tell you something,” he says, still pressed against her heart. “Before we proceed.”

He’s waiting for her permission, she realizes ten seconds into the silence. She has fear in her heart waiting for the right moment to pounce at her insecurities. But, she thinks, it’s Scott. He’s already broken her heart a million times before. She can handle it.

She runs a soothing hand through his hair and says _yes_.

He lifts his head and gives her a smile. “Did you know that you ruined me?” he shakes his head a little, his thumbs at her hips drawing light circles into her skin. “Every time I thought I was over you, there you are, proving me wrong.”

“That’s not my fault,” she replies because she couldn’t help it.

He nods. “It’s mine. I don’t ever want to move on from you. If you’d let me, I want to stay like this forever.”

“Scott,” she says, her voice coming out raw and rough. She feels her eyes prickle with tears but she effectively holds them back. She’s straddling him, for god’s sake, and he’s hard between her legs. “We’re going to have sex.”

He heaves a huge sigh and hangs his head. “Yes. And then some more when we get back home. Some more in the week after that. And I’m going to try to hold your hand some time in the next month, try to kiss you good bye or good morning, or good night. But only if you’d let me.”

She only sees the fear in his eyes when she looks at him with the fear in hers. She only feels it in her veins when she puts her palm against his beating heart.

And if they feel the same things, that means something, right?

He leans up to kiss her gently, and with the softness of his breath, he says, “I keep coming back to you, I think it’s time for me to stop running.”

“Okay,” she tells him. He kisses her again briefly. “Okay, come back. Come home.”

Their short kisses turn deep and passionate and soon, he’s laying down on the bed with her pushing his shoulders so that he’s flat on the mattress. Her hair hangs like a curtain at one side, letting the moonlight pass in slivers to illuminate his face.

There is a mindlessness to it, her acceptance.

She knows in her head that Scott has always been _it_ , past the doubt and the anger and the fear. You can’t go through so much with one person by your side through it all and not love them in a way that’s deeper than the love you give to other people. Scott soaked in that love and in turn, he gave her as much.

Tessa has never really understood the meaning of a gaze until it’s him looking at her with the weight of all the years they spent together.

She leans down and kisses him again, seemingly never getting enough. It’s been so long since the last time.

He grabs her hips and pulls her into him, letting her feel the effect of what she’s doing to him. He groans into her mouth when he feels her smile because he likes it when she’s bossy. He likes it when she pins him down, almost always pulls her on top if she’s up for it. And she almost always is.

She runs a hand down his chest, feels him rise against her palm until she reaches his stomach and his muscles tense. She wastes no time in unbuttoning his pants, the back of her hands brushing against his clothed dick as she finishes. He lifts his hips and helps her get rid of his jeans, smiling at her almost apologetically about the obvious tenting in his boxers.

She smiles back, palming him lightly, his smile turning into a clenched jaw and a hitched breath.

“Tessa,” he groans, gripping her hands in his. “Your turn.”

She remembers very briefly that she’s down to just her underwear, that feeling the sheets against her bare skin is a revelation. He hovers above her, kissing down her sternum, pulling the middle of her bra for a bit and then releasing it to snap back to her skin. She squeaks.

He laughs.

His hand doesn’t stall, just cups her through the fabric of her panties, rubbing until she’s moaning. His head comes up and stares her dead in the eyes before his other hand, the one that’s not busy, clamps against her mouth.

“My brothers are light sleepers,” he whispers. “Can you keep quiet for me, baby?”

All she can do is nod. He also knows that she loves it when he does _that_.

Scott parts her legs with his shoulders, fingers skimming the simple black garment as if asking for permission. When she nods, they come off almost immediately.

She’s wet between the legs, she knows it, she doesn’t think she needs any more prepping, but he lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up her center that has her putting her own hand against her mouth to trap an undoubtedly unholy sound.

He grunts against her and does it, over and over again, kissing her just right how she wants it. He gets her _up there_ in no time, his nose pressing against her clit as his tongue dips into her with reverence, and she feels her climax just within reach –

And then he pulls away, but not far away. “Would love to hear you scream,” he breathes against her, watching her twitch with fascination. “Would love to find out just how good you feel. How good I make you feel.” He strokes the inside of her legs with both hands and raises his eyes to her. “Promise me you’d let me do this when we go back home.”

Her head is all light and airy, mourning the loss of his mouth, that she nods without even hearing the words. Not that she’s ever going to stop him when she’s his, body and soul.

“Okay,” he says, and then crawls back up to kiss her, letting her taste herself and she’s grateful for the heaviness of the kiss because she wants to explode with how good he is at making her feel like she’s in heaven with just his touch.

Tessa skims her hand down his abs and grasps him in her hand, stroking him through his boxers. She hears him muffle his moan against her neck, shuddering.

“Scott,” she says. “Come on.”

He makes a wrecked noise into her skin. “I don’t wanna rush you.”

Tessa almost laughs. “We’re the slowest people in the planet.”

And he laughs, too, bringing her hand back up to his mouth to plant a kiss to the back of it. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I am,” she shoots back.

He shakes his head fondly, reaching for the clasp at the back of her bra and wasting no time in discarding the lacy garment. He takes a nipple into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue until she’s battling with her mind to _not_ make a sound.

The breath gets trapped in her chest, pulsing at his ear like he could hear them without them ever reaching her throat.

“I love the sounds that you make, Tess,” he murmurs. “Wish I could hear them.”

He switches to the other breast, a free hand kneading the one cooling with his spit, and she’s almost crazy with need.

“Scott,” she moans as she feels a hint of teeth. “Please.”

Her leg brushes up his side to settle at his hip and he pushes it into the mattress, opening her up. “Yeah, okay,” he replies. “Stay there.”

Scott gets rid of his boxers in record time, procures a condom from his back pocket and gets it on himself. When he comes back up, she meets him with a raised brow.

He shrugs. “I saw the way you were looking at me last Christmas. I just… hoped.”

She bites her lip from a smile. “We could have been doing this a long time ago, then.”

He slides two fingers into her and she gasps. “I didn’t wanna assume. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Scott,” she warns as he continues pumping them in and out, driving her mindless.

He nods and pulls his hand out, spreading her legs and settling between.

She feels his tip heavily against her, almost reluctant. When she reaches out to touch his cheek, he meets her with a smile and a kiss, pushing into her breathlessly.

For a second, the moment freezes.

He’s suspended just right there, not moving. And her eyes clench shut at the sensation, a ripple of shock pulsing all throughout her limbs. They share a breath, in and out, and it feels everything and nothing like their rituals. She vaguely feels him twitch inside her, vaguely hears his breath hitch. If this is it, if this is how it feels if it’s right, she’s going to strive to be right all the time. Forever.

When she opens them back up again, she sees him.

His lips parted around a stilted word, his gaze dark and heavy. There’s a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead. But he seems at peace.

He starts moving, the first drag always the best, and then they find a rhythm.

The similes of their rhythm on ice and in bed lost in the way he’s kissing her neck, in the way she’s gripping his hair. She knows he likes it when she does this, always drives him crazy with need when she scratches his scalp with unforgiving nails.

He likes it when it hurts a little bit.

He likes it when she moans his name.

And when he likes it, he loses it a little, and she likes that.

He hitches her legs higher, brows furrowed, as he loses himself in her. He watches her face, he watches her expression.

“I’m close,” she tells him, shaking. He nods, and with one swift maneuver, pulls her up and onto himself.

She starts moving on top of him, loves the way he closes his eyes and arches his back, lips bitten until they’re swollen to trap the sounds trying to come out of him. He mutters her name instead, a litany, a prayer. A quiet pattern into the dimness of the room.

She places a hand on his heart and feels the beat into her skin, soaking through her and into her veins. She feels the beginnings of her orgasm overtake the edges of her resolve, so much that she has to bend over and bite the base of his neck to try and muffle her own sounds.

For a brief second before the wave hits her, she hears his heart skip a beat against her ear, she hears him breathe out a ragged declaration – and then she goes under.

Her whole body seizes, her breath stops, and she clutches at him desperately, her climax taking over her senses completely.

“Tessa,” he gasps as he follows her into the unknown.

And then there’s silence. Nothing but their labored breaths disturbing the peace of the room. The chill seeps in slowly until it becomes unbearable that Scott pulls the blankets over her slumped form on his chest, chuckling lightly when she shivers.

When it comes back to her, she feels it spread from her chest outwards. “You said something,” she mouths against his skin.

“I said a lot of things,” he shoots back, voice slurring from exhaustion.

“Scott,” she says, fond exasperation in her voice. She is almost sure she’s heard it clearly. And the fact that they never miss a day saying it to each other makes it mean even more that he’s said it before they both fell into bliss.

“I said ‘I love you’,” he replies with so much certainty that it rattles her a little bit. “Like I always have.”

She musters just enough energy to look him in the eye and give him a smile. “You thought you were so sneaky, eh.”

This time, his laugh is so loud she has to slap her palm to his mouth. He grabs her hand and giggles. “One day, I’ll get you to say it again. In this context. Just watch me, Virtch.”

Tessa presses a brief kiss to his lips and rolls off him with a contented sigh. He reaches down and gets rid of the condom to the bin just under the bedside table. _Yeah_ , she thinks as she slings a leg over his waist and lets herself be lulled to sleep by his steady breathing. _One day._

*

She says the words the moment they got back to Montreal, as he’s brushing his teeth in her bathroom. His mouth is full of toothpaste and he’s making funny faces through the mirror at her as she towels her hair dry just outside the door.

She grins and says, “I love you,” and watches as his eyes grow bigger in alarm. He ducks his head and washes the froth out of his mouth, not even pausing to wipe his face from the excess, just turning around and tackling her into her bed with an affronted scoff.

He’s got her pinned to the bed, face hovering above her. “You said that exactly when I just can’t answer you, you heathen.”

“Well, you can answer _now_.”

He beams. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! let me know what you think in the comments, or yell at me on twitter (@hooksandheroics).


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